


P.S. I Never Told You

by goldenheadfreckledheart



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 14:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12170964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenheadfreckledheart/pseuds/goldenheadfreckledheart
Summary: Prompt: A piece of paper attached to the pillar. It reads, 'P.S. I was falling in love with you.'“You left her a note? How old are you?”“I can’t tell if you’re implying I’m immature or old and out of touch.”On the other end of the call, Octavia sighs. “Both, probably.”“Your support is always appreciated.”





	P.S. I Never Told You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Parttimesloth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parttimesloth/gifts).



> Image insp for this prompt is [here](http://stars-and-storms.tumblr.com/post/138387747846).

“You left her a _note_? How old are you?”

“I can’t tell if you’re implying I’m immature or old and out of touch.”

On the other end of the call, Octavia sighs. “Both, probably.”

“Your support is always appreciated.”

“Bell-,”

“I know it’s stupid.” He admits with a sigh of his own, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “But when have I ever _not_ been stupid about her?”

His sister is silent for a moment, a confirmation.

“You said she went there all the time right?” she finally asks.

“Yeah, even before we were friends.”

“So she’ll probably go back. And she was friends with you, so who knows? Maybe she’s into that kind of inept flirtation.”

He wants to argue—but, “That’s really the only kind I’ve got.”

“Good luck, Bell.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Bellamy became friends with Clarke Griffin in the way that feels like a whirlwind but was actually a fairly basic, linear series of events, starting two years ago:

He moves to the city, fresh out of undergrad, to work as a glorified assistant at the city library archives. Which isn’t to say that the library isn’t great, but Jaha doesn’t trust him with doing any original research yet, so Bellamy spends most of his time filing or verifying details on the other archivists’ research.

 _It’s a start_ , is what he keeps telling himself. Octavia’s got an amazing scholarship to a school in California; she’s having the time of her life. Which means Bellamy can stop worrying about her and work towards having a career he actually loves, instead of working as many jobs as possible, on top of balancing classes.

He’s still getting used to it.

It’s raining when he meets Clarke, the first rain of the fall, and he obviously didn’t think to check the weather that morning, so his walk home from the library is decidedly dreary.

It gets worse along the walk, which he had previously considered a short one. Two blocks from his building, he decides the safety of the laptop in his backpack is worth more than increasing his proximity to warm, dry clothes, so he swears and turns down an alleyway, hoping it might offer some shelter.

At the end of it, near where it meets the next street, he spots what looks like an abandoned newspaper stand, built into the first floor of the building—just a low wall and empty doorway leaving the space exposed to the air.

But it’s got a roof, and that’s all he’s really looking for.

He ducks inside without a second thought—and nearly barrels into the girl who’s apparently beat him to seeking refuge there.

“Oh shit, sorry.”

The girl, only a couple inches shorter than him, startles backward, and once she recovers, looks like she’s going to yell at him. Which he can generally understand. He’s been wanting to yell at someone for the last ten minutes and he _hasn’t_ been accosted by a stranger.

Her shoulders relax a little after a second, presumably when she realizes he wasn’t trying to attack her. Though he wouldn’t blame her if she still thought he might. The breath she lets out shifts the strands of rain-soaked blonde hair next to her face.

“It’s fine. I just—wasn’t expecting anyone else to show up here.”

A burst of cold wind gusts through the alley and she shivers. He resists the urge to offer her his jacket—half because any helpful sentiment would be lost coming from a stranger and half because it’s nearly soaked through anyway.

“Yeah, I don’t usually come this way. I was hoping this might be better than walking in the open street,” he explains, apologetic, adjusting the backpack straps on his shoulders. The fact that no one else is around isn’t lost on him. “Sorry again. I’ll, uh, let you wait out the rain in peace.”

He’s halfway through the open doorway when he hears her feet shift against the concrete.

“You should just stay.”

When he turns, there’s color on her face that he thinks wasn’t there a second ago, but it’s accompanied by a look of determination that just fails at hiding the discomfort beneath.

“It’ll pass in a few minutes anyway. The rain,” she says, moving away from the door and further inside along the open wall, just past the singular support pillar in the middle of the space.

He’s trying not to be rude when she’s just offered to let him stay dry, but, “How do you know?”

She smiles a little. “Are you new around here?” she asks.

It’s not unkind, the way she says it, and she _is_ right. he ducks his head. “Is it that obvious? Do locals get, like, weather prediction powers or something?”

Her laugh is at odds with the rain as she relaxes against the low wall. “No, I’m pretty new here too. You just get used to the rain. It comes out of nowhere and leaves about the same way. It should let up soon.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the wet curls away from his face. “Oh good, so this isn’t just a one-time thing.”

“Afraid not.”

She’s still smiling, genuinely even, if he had to guess, but he can’t _not_ say, “Look, I really don’t have to stay here. I’m sure there are other places around here I can hide from the rain.”

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “There’s really not. It’s just office buildings for the next block and a half, whichever way you go.”

He lets out a huff. “Yeah I know that, I’m just saying, you don’t have to—”

“It’s cool,” she interrupts, boosting herself up onto the wall, just out of reach of the rain. “I don’t get the feeling you want to, like, steal my hair to make a sweater.”

He blinks, too surprised to come up with anything but, “Is that an offer you get often?”

“All the time. I have very desirable hair.”

He lets out a surprised laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure you do.”

“Don’t sound so skeptical,” she retorts. She considers him, then offers a sheepish smile. “This feels like too weird of a conversation to be having with someone whose name I don’t actually know.”

“What, you don’t talk about human hair sweaters with every guy you meet on the street?” he says with a teasing grin. “I’m Bellamy.”

“You’re definitely special in that department. Hey, I’m Clarke.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Is it? ‘Cause I had a feeling this got pretty weird for a second there.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, but you also didn’t ask to make _my_ hair into a sweater. Could be worse,” he says, shouldering off his backpack to lean against the wall.

She grins. “Next time.”

The rain does stop a few minutes later, as promised, and he says goodbye to Clarke after thanking her again for sharing the shelter.

It doesn’t feel monumental the way it does when he looks back on it later, and it’s not until he’s walking away that he realizes he could use a friend here-that she might have been a good place to start. A bizarre place to start, but definitely a starting point.

Octavia and Miller would be so proud.

* * *

The next time it rains, a week or so later, he has an umbrella, but the alley still seems like a pretty good option—a shortcut and escape from the howling wind—so he takes that route anyway.

He’d be lying if he said he’s not thinking about the week before as he approaches the old newspaper stand, but he doesn’t actually expect to see Clarke there, so the flash of blonde hair from the doorway is a surprise. He would think he imagined it, except he doesn’t feel like he’s actually _that_ desperate for a friend yet. Work keeps him busy enough, and he has Octavia and Miller, albeit remotely.

Still, that doesn’t mean he’s not happy to see a familiar face.

“I’m starting to think you’re not as much of an expert on the weather as you claim,” he says, when he’s close enough that he thinks she’ll be able to hear, but hopefully not close enough to startle her.

If his interruption is unwelcome, she doesn’t let on.

“New guy! Hey!”

She’s definitely drier than the last time he saw her, the scrubs she’s wearing beneath her coat only dotted with rain, hair pulled back from her face. And she’s smiling. It’s far from the worst thing he’s ever seen.

It’s not like he _didn’t_ notice she was pretty before. It just didn’t seem pertinent. It still isn’t, really.

“It’s Bellamy, but I’ll take it.” He returns the smile. “Hey Clarke.”

“I never claimed to be a weather expert, by the way,” she says, after gesturing that he join her. He spots her own umbrella leaning against the wall inside. “But I like the rain and I like hanging out here. It’s usually pretty quiet,” she inclines her head, “Until this guy started showing up.”

She’s definitely teasing, and that’s always been his favorite form of communication.

“Sorry that the random alleyway you’ve claimed ownership of is a good shortcut back from my work.”

“Yeah, me too. It’s a real burden,” she says with an exaggerated sigh. Then, more serious, “My dad used to take me here, back when it actually sold magazines and stuff."

"Don’t offer to leave again,” she says on a laugh, before he can do just that. “It was a long time ago. Mostly I just come here because it’s quiet.” She’s barely silent for a second before she adds, “Hey do you work at the library?”

Bellamy accepts the abrupt, if somewhat bizarre, topic change. He can’t blame her for not wanting to discuss whatever event _used to_ precedes with a virtual stranger. He can relate.

“Uh, yeah, I do. How did you know that?” he asks, more confused than wary.

She grimaces. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out that weird. But, yeah, I volunteer there twice a week and thought I saw someone who looked like you last week.”

“Whoa, no way? Small town, I guess.”

He tells her he works in the archives, her eyes light up, any evidence of the somber topic lost in an excited smile.

“That sounds awesome.” She hops up onto the wall, a habit he remembers from last time. “I would have said hi, but, you know, hard to be sure it was you when you weren’t wearing a bucket’s worth of water.”

He barks a laugh. “Yeah, I could say the same for you.” He pauses to nod at her scrubs. “So you do the library in addition to… the hospital?” His knowledge of the area he works in is shallow at best, but he remembers passing a hospital a couple times during his search for good lunch places.

Clarke grins a little, happy, but tired around the edges. “Medical school, yeah. And if you’re implying I’m overworked, you’re probably right. My friend Raven insists I’m trying to substitute more responsibilities for social engagement.”

Definitely a familiar sentiment. “My sister and best friend tell me the same thing. What days do you volunteer?”

That sets them down a path of exchanging work details and anecdotes, and it’s not what he was expecting out of his evening, but it’s definitely not unwelcome.

When the rain stops, she mentions she’s thinking about joining a trivia night at a bar a few streets down the following night, and asks if he wants to join her, which he obviously does.

“Our friends are going to be so proud of us,” she says, dry, after giving him the address. “Making actual effort to meet new people.”

“I guarantee my sister will turn it into another way to make fun of me, but yeah, she’ll be a little impressed.”

“I mean, she’ll probably be right. It _is_ a trivia night. That’s basically the nerdiest way to meet new people.”

He looks at her, half shocked, half indignant. “You’re literally the one who invited me!”

She knocks her shoulder against his on their way out into the alley. “I didn’t say I wasn’t pathetic too.”

Bellamy lets the insult roll off and grins down at her. “Speak for yourself. I’ll own to nerdy, you can be pathetic on your own.”

Her shoulder is decidedly less gentle this time. “ _Rude._ ”

* * *

After that, the newspaper stand becomes more or less their _spot,_  but as more of a meeting place than a hangout. She joins him for lunch the days she’s at the library, he’ll meet her at the stand after work most days, and they do trivia once a week. He meets some of her friends from the medical program, and it feels like he actually has a social life.

It’s all a lot smoother than he thought making friends would go, honestly, considering where it started. Clarke’s great—fun, smart, but mostly just easy to talk to. Everything anyone wants in a town where they don’t know anyone.

A couple months in, he’s waiting for Clarke at their meeting place, an idle grin on his face as he scans at the worn down wood of the newspaper stand, when she appears at his side, pulling him from his thoughts.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” he says, accepting the to-go cup of coffee she offers. “I’m just glad we stopped hanging out here. I kind of thought I’d gotten past my delinquent teenage years.”

It’s a vague statement, but she catches his meaning.

“We weren’t actually being delinquents. We’d leave if someone told us to.” She pauses, tilts her head. “But yeah this is definitely something my broody teenage self would do. Go hangout somewhere dark and grungy after a bad day.”

He laughs. “Dark and grungy? Are you allowed to be dark and grungy if you’re blonde?” he asks, flicking at her hair.

She swats his hand away. “Yeah, well I thought ‘tall, dark, and handsome’ was supposed to be synonymous with ‘cool’, but here you are, being a fucking nerd anyway.”

He honestly tries not to react to _tall, dark, and handsome_ , but he must not do a very good job, because she goes red a second later.

“You think I’m tall?” he asks, before she can say anything. He knows he’s decently attractive. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

Relief sweeps her face, confirming his thoughts, and she grins. “Just trying to help you live your dreams, Bellamy.”

“Yeah, you’re so inspirational.” Part of him wants to push the topic, see where it goes, but having a friend feels more important than…something more, at the moment, so he settles on, “Tell me about your dark, grungy childhood, Princess.”

They start the walk back and she tells him about her dad’s death, and the following awkwardness with her mom.  He returns the favor with stories of raising his sister when his mother couldn’t, and making it on their own after her death.

He invites her up to watch whatever documentary they can find on Netflix, and it’s that night that he’ll remember as the first time he thinks he could fall in love with her.

But he’s happy with what he’s got.

* * *

It’s another couple weeks before she tells her about her art. She’s got an awesome tumblr; a mix of her own art and other art and architecture that inspires her. He follows her and she returns the favor—after teasing him about his own content.

“It’s so _you._ ”

“What does that even mean?”

She laughs, bright. “It’s not an insult. It’s just, like, the least surprising thing. You blog about dead roman dudes and ancient architecture. It’s cute.”

There’s no reason that should make him blush. He ducks his head. “I’m pretty sure there was still an insult in there somewhere.”

Clarke shrugs. “Yeah, probably.”

“That’s okay,” he says, recovering. “You use the literal negative free time you have to make amazing art, overachiever. We both have our flaws.”

She doesn’t even look phased. “Only half my negative free time. The other half I spend with you.”

He slings an arm around her shoulders. “Yeah, yeah. Lucky me.”

It only comes out slightly less sarcastic than what he was aiming for.

* * *

He’s known her for a little over a year—and is living in a state of ongoing denial about his feelings for her—when he offhandedly refers to her as his best friend during a skype call with Miller.

“When the fuck did I get replaced? I’ve known you your whole fucking life.”

Clarke leans into the view of the webcam from her side of the couch. “Since you don’t live here. Proximity trumps history. Suck it, Nate.”

Miller’s image sticks a grainy tongue out at her. “Can’t help but notice that you didn’t actually say you’re a better friend.”

Clarke grins. “Well you’re just so cool. There’s no competition.”

“Damn right.”

“Do you guys need some time alone?” Bellamy finally asks, deadpan, like having two of his favorite people get along in his presence isn’t the best thing that’s happened to him all day.

Luckily—or unluckily, depending on how you look at it—Clarke knows him far too well, and ruffles his hair with knowing grin.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” she says, before slumping back to her side of the couch, propping her feet in his lap.

It’s fair to say his life is going well.

* * *

Getting an email from a well-known archivist in New York a month later definitely doesn’t take _away_ from the quality of his life, but it does mean he has to _leave._

Marcus Kane, who has apparently taken an interest in the research project Bellamy has taken over at the library, wants him to come to New York where he’ll have access to countless primary sources. Which is ideal for Bellamy’s career and future, but not so much for his growing feelings for Clarke—not to mention the resolve to finally _tell her_ that he’s been working so hard to cultivate.

Clarke, when he tells her, is completely understanding about the opportunity and the short time frame for leaving. She’s sad too, of course, but mostly she’s endlessly _excited_ for him, and it makes his heart ache.

He’s excited too. Mostly. It’s everything he could hope for, career-wise.

So the quick job transfer is one explanation for the note. The other is that he’s just kind of pathetic.

They get dinner the night before he flies out and it’s... great, if bittersweet, getting his fill of laughing with her before he leaves. He nearly tells her at the end, when he walks her back to her place, but he bites back the words. It would be unfair, to both of them.

So instead he goes back to his empty apartment and finishes off the last of his alcohol, nearly the only thing left unpacked. It is, possibly, slightly more than he anticipated, something that his self-pity doesn’t seem to care much about. He wakes up hungover the following morning, but all he really has to do is get on a plane, so he’s not too concerned.

He doesn’t remember the note, or even _leaving his apartment_ , which is concerning in itself, until halfway through the flight, and he spends the rest of it freaking out—and resisting the urge to pay for overpriced internet access.

As soon they land, he turns on his phone, nearly has a heart attack when he sees he has a text from Clarke, and then breathes again once he actually reads it.

 

 **Clarke:** New York here you come!!!

 **Clarke:** Text me when you land :)

 

She hasn’t seen it. It should be relieving but…

He types out a quick “ _landed!_ ” text when he gets off the plane and then calls Octavia, who’d strong-armed him into admitting his feelings for Clarke months ago. At this point he’s not above going to his little sister in a crisis.

“You left her a _note_? How old are you?”

Talking to her helps, in the way that sharing a personal crisis feels better than keeping it to yourself, but there’s not actually anything either of them can do about it.

He doesn’t totally botch his first week in New York for spending every second in anxiety of Clarke finding the note, but it’s a near thing.

Every time he gets a text from her, his stomach twists in a mixture of terror that she’s finally seen it and genuine excitement to hear from her. It’s exhausting, honestly. He feels a little old to be having a crisis like this, wondering if the girl he likes has _figured out_ that he likes her.

But he’s also never been a mess over someone the way he is with Clarke.

Days pass and he settles into a new routine and the library in the city, texting Clarke updates as often as he can, which are met with encouraging responses or snarky teasing in equal measure. And she doesn’t find the note. Or she does, but she doesn’t say anything.

Eventually, the anxiety is too much to keep up and dissolves into just _missing her_. Either she’s seen it, or she hasn’t, and if she has, she’s still speaking to him. That’s all that really matters.

They do weekly skype calls, which are always the highlight of his week, even when research at the library is going well.

The calls definitely don’t help with any chance he has of getting over her, but he’ll accept the heartache if it means he gets to see her.

“Remember when I told Miller that I was only your best friend because I was closer to you?” she’s saying, late one Friday night.

He can’t help a laugh. “I swear, if you tell me you’re done being my best friend now I’m gonna hang up.”

Clarke doesn’t answer right away.

“Clarke?”

“I miss you,” she says, quiet.

The statement falls in place with her previous words, and suddenly he understands what’s going on—is _relieved_ by it, as bad as it sounds. He still doesn’t know if she’s seen the note, but whether she has or hasn’t—

“Clarke," he says, voice almost breaking on the name. Then, stronger, "You’re always going to be my best friend. No matter where we are.”

“Do you really think so?”

He considers it for a second, really _considers_ their friendship, separate from any feelings he has for her, and can’t find any reason he’d want to _stop_ being friends with her. She feels permanent in his life in the same way that Miller and Octavia do, and it’s kind of a revelation—even beyond falling for her.

“Yeah, I do,” he says. And because he can’t _not_ deflect feelings, he adds, “You know too much. If we’re ever not friends, you’re going to reveal all my secrets.”

It takes her barely a beat to respond with, “To _who_ exactly, all your nerdy archive rivals?”

“I miss you too, Clarke.”

Her smile is warm. “Thanks, Bellamy.”

* * *

She comes to visit when he’s been there 4 months, and he doesn’t think he really understood how _much_ he missed her until she’s there at the airport, barreling into his arms.

He doesn’t kiss her then, or when she pulls out of his arms to beam up at him, which he thinks counts as a victory. It’s hard to tell.

Regardless, it’s good to see her.

As fate would have it, it’s raining in New York when she arrives, which does nothing to damper her excitement to explore the city, even when he offers that they’ll have plenty of time to walk around the next day.

“I have it on good authority that you own an umbrella,” she says, sarcastic, when they stop by his apartment to drop off her suitcase. “And besides, we met in the rain. It can be symbolic or something. A rebirth of our friendship, after you tried to tear us apart by following your dreams.”

She punctuates it with an exaggerated eye roll, clearly joking, but it’s a fair point. Plus she’s _here_. There isn’t much she could suggest that he wouldn’t agree to.

“Yeah, yeah, alright. If you’re sick on your flight home, don’t blame me,” he says, reaching into his coat closet for the umbrella.

“Already wishing I were gone,” she says, taking the umbrella from him as he holds the door open for her. “I get it.”

“Yeah, you’re a real burden,” he says, following her out and stepping under the umbrella with her as she grins up at him, making his chest lurch.

* * *

“Oh, hey!” she says, as they wander through Central Park. “You remember our spot? The newspaper stand?”

He nearly chokes on nothing. “Yeah, of course,” he says, managing words. “What about it?”

“I guess other people must have started hanging out there after we left. It’s kind of cute.”

It’s not really where he was expecting this to go.

“Well, after _you_ left, I guess,” she continues. “I stopped going for a while, because I missed you so much,” she says, like this is nothing. And he supposes it is. He knew she’d missed him. But hearing her say it in person still makes him warm. Makes him think they’d be okay, even if she knew.

But she’d stopped going for a _while_ , she’d said. Which means she’s gone back. His stomach drops back to his toes.

“Anyways, I passed it a couple weeks ago, just to check it out, and I saw—here, I’ll just show you.”

She pulls them over to a tree that offers some shelter from the dissipating rain so she can put down the umbrella and take out her phone. She navigates to her photos, and it really feels like the universe is playing this cosmic joke on him, where he knows exactly what’s going to happen, but can’t do anything to stop it.

Sure enough, there on her phone is a picture of the note he’d left her, taped to the singular column in the middle of the space, out of reach of the elements. It’s his handwriting, clear as day:

_P.S. I never told you, but I was falling in love._

“…pretty cute. I kind of wish they were there when I walked by, but I guess that would have been weird,” Clarke is saying, completely oblivious that he’s still staring at the phone, a loud static in his ears.

But it’s Clarke, so she’s not oblivious for long.

“Bellamy? What’s wrong?”

“Sorry, it’s nothing,” he says, trying to sound like he means it. He shakes his head and reaches down for the umbrella at their feet.

She catches his arm. “I know you better than that. What’s wrong?” Her eyes meet his, like she’s trying to find what he’s hiding there.

He looks away before he can think better of it, and after a beat he feels her hand drop.

“Obviously you don’t have to tell me, but,” her voice is small, “I’m here, whatever it is.”

His heart lodges in his chest. “No, shit, Clarke, it’s nothing like that, I just, uh—,” he pauses on a laugh. He didn’t even sign it. It’s so _stupid._ “You don’t know what my handwriting looks like, do you?”

Her brow furrows. “No? I don’t know what anyone’s handwriting looks like anymore, except maybe my parents.” She cracks a small smile. “Join us in the age of technology,” she says, sarcastic, with a nudge to his ribs. “But what does that have to do with—”

She cuts herself off and blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

When she doesn’t say anything, he figures now is as good a time as any for an explanation.

“I got drunk the night before I left, after we went to dinner.” He could write it off as a fluke, he realizes. He was drunk, and leaving the next day, and misinterpreted that sadness for heartbreak. The tools are all there.

But it sounds weak, even in his head. And she deserves better than that.

“Turns out alcohol doesn’t make me any better with feelings, just slightly more reckless,” he finishes, feeling hollow.

She makes a sound that he can’t interpret. After a second, she wets her lips and finally meets his eyes.

“And… still?”

He shrugs, forcing away the sinking feeling, and tries to diffuse the awkwardness. “Yeah. But it’s not— Your friendship is more—”

Her fingertips are on his chin before he can finish, tilting his head down so she can kiss him. It’s gentle—a reassurance—and he freezes for a second while his brain struggles to process what’s happening. Then she slides a hand up into his hair, scratching gently at his scalp, the way he likes, and he stutters back into reality to kiss her back, anchoring a hand at her waist and the other at her jaw, drinking her in, deepening the kiss until he’s not aware of anything but _Clarke_.

Eventually, she pulls back to rest her forehead against his, her breathing slightly uneven. “I was falling in love with you too.”

“You _were_?” he asks, grinning and a little delirious. “As in past tense, or…?”

She rolls her eyes, but presses her lips back to his, brief. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m not hearing any complaints.”

She shifts her chin away from him in faux defiance. “Maybe I like ridiculous.”

He twines his fingers through hers where her hand rests against his side. “Yeah, that sounds like you.”

When she turns back to him, her smile is like the sun, and, yeah, he loves her.

“Hey, did you know there are good medical programs in New York?” she says, after a moment of quiet.

He’s still too lost in the wonder of the moment for her meaning to sink in right away. When it finally does, he kisses her again, but he’s smiling too much to get lost in it.

“Theoretically yeah, I figure there must be. It’s a big city,” he says when they pull apart again. Then he frowns. “You shouldn’t have to move for me.”

“The programs are better here anyways. And we could do long-distance, but,” she shrugs, “I’m tired of not being near you.”

He’s never going to stop smiling. It doesn’t feel like a surprise, now, that she could feel the same way about him, but it’s overwhelming all the same.

Then after a second, she glares up at him, like she just remembered he ruined her moment. “Anyways, I’m trying to be romantic here,” she grumbles.

“I think it’s safe to say neither of us is very good at that.”

“Hey!” she says, indignant. “Speak for yourself. I flew out here to see you. That’s very romantic.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You’re sweeping me off my feet.”

She picks up the umbrella, lifting it above them before leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Don’t you forget it.”

He catches her jaw before she gets too far to kiss her properly. “You should definitely move to New York.”

“Thanks, I think I will.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you didn’t even _sign_ it!” she says after they finish dinner later that night, like the thought just occurred to her.

He can’t even blame her. It’s so stupid.

“I don’t think I can emphasize any more that I was _drunk_ , Clarke.”

She takes his hand again, laces her fingers through his, like she’s reveling in the feeling of it as much as he is. “You’re lucky I love you.”

He smiles down at her. “Yeah. I am.”

She tugs on his hand, expectant, and he laughs. “I love you too. I thought that was obvious.”

“I like to hear you say it,” she says, soft, wrapping an arm around his waist as they walk.

“Yeah.” He settles his arm around her shoulders. “I’ll say it as much as you want.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey pals. I haven't posted fic in like... 4 months? That's a while. As such, I realize this turned out high in cheese content and lacking in plot, but I hope it was still a fun time. I'm always around on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)!


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